


not a virtue but a disguise

by lonelyghosts



Series: you, yourself, your own [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Tragedy of Duscur (Fire Emblem), Trans Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Trans Edelgard von Hresvelg, Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, blue lions are just like [gender trauma], faerghus gender roles. but wait it gets worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyghosts/pseuds/lonelyghosts
Summary: Faerghus is a cold place. A cold place and a cruel one.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro
Series: you, yourself, your own [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015026
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	not a virtue but a disguise

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for tragedy of duscur typical violence and trauma, as well as transphobia

Faerghus is a cold place. A cold place and a cruel one.

He was born crying, a pink baby that flushed easily. By the time he was five, there were adults cooing over him, talking about what a great beauty he would grow into, with his long blonde hair and perfect blue eyes- just like the king's, they said, and pinched his chubby cheeks and put him in dresses that he would proceed to remove as soon as possible.

There was a reason that many of his friends called him Sacha throughout his childhood. It was mostly because he would cry when they said his full name, and crying meant getting hurt, and for all the faults between Felix and Sylvain and Ingrid and the lot of them, all so messed up by this cold country with no room for bending, they never wanted to see him in pain.

There was no room for flinching in Faerghus. There never had been. There was no bending without breaking. El was the only exception- the girl with the body he had been denied. He had not yet found words for it, then; he had only the knowledge that Sacha was the only version of his name he could answer to without feeling sick. El had whispered in the dark about what it meant, and Dimitri had stared, awestruck, at the sheer length of her dark hair and the sharp lines of her face, the places where she was hard and he was soft. 

El had hardly been the first one to introduce this concept to him; there was Felix, of course, who had cut his hair himself and refused to answer to the name his father had given him. Rodrigue hardly seemed to care that Felix burnt his dresses and his skirts and wore trousers instead, hair chopped unevenly- he had an heir, anyways. Glenn was meant to be Dimitri's shield- what Felix did was unimportant. It was for this reason he was permitted these transgressions, even if it did mean that the other nobles spat at his feet- he was an exception, really. The lucky one.

Dimitri tried, once, to tell his father. He'd stood in front of his father with his hands wringing and his hair pulled back as much as possible, trying to explain the truth of who he was and coming up empty handed, his palms outstretched. His father's laughter and a hand in his hair, tousling it till the hair tie came loose and the locks tumbled down his back as he held back tears. An object of laughter.

When his entire family died, they still thought of him as their daughter. 

There was fire all around him and blood on his hands as he stared, frozen, at all the carnage around him and tried to make sense of it. There was screaming in his ears that he would only later realize was his own. Glenn's body lay at his feet, the blood dripping from his mouth, his eyes open and dull and empty, and he could only stare, his fingers trembling, as his father died.

What kind of boy was he, to stand, frozen, in this mess, with every ounce of his courage drained and discarded? His father swore and fought even as the sword fell from his nerveless fingers, and Dimitri could do nothing. 

They'd all been right, he thought in that endless moment that would whisper to him in the years to come. He could never be a man. Not if he remained this cowardly.

When Gustave found him he was still standing, frozen, but he was not screaming any longer. Dimitri clung to the ridges of his armor as Gustave carried him away from the massacre. The smoke pricked his eyes and his heart screamed, but he did not cry.

When he heard of what the council had decided on, the carnage planned in retaliation, he did not beg for them to have mercy on Duscur. He did not plead for them to stay their hands. No. Begging had never gotten him anything. 

Instead he snuck into the armory and strapped Glenn's first set of armor to his body. The metal gauntlets kept sliding off his skinny wrists. He took a practice spear and stole a horse from the stables and slipped into the night to follow them. 

He rode all day and night, and it didn't matter. No matter his skill with horses, he had left too late, and he could not stop them before the bloodshed started. By the time he arrived there were already bodies on the ground, blood that splashed against the metal of his boots. There was screaming in the air and gore left like afterthoughts on the side of the road. He was too late.

The fires roared above the village and Dimitri was frozen again, a child by an overturned carriage in the middle of a warzone. He could still hear Glenn's furious, agonized screams of pain and rage, his father's words of vengeance spat at the killers' feet. He could see the bodies behind his eyes.

But Dimitri was a boy, and boys of Faerghus were not cowards. He did not stop moving, even though each step made another memory play behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw and he gripped his spear and he kept moving. 

He only managed to save Dedue before the soldiers found him- he was small, after all, and his blonde hair and pale complexion was a beacon in Duscur's streets. They converged upon him and he stood fast. He planted his feet in front of Dedue's body and used his body as a shield, biting his lip when the steel fell upon his back and left its marks on his flesh, marks that would never fade. They only recognized him by his voice when he cried out for them to stop.

They would not kill him. He was too valuable- the only heir to Faerghus. As they begrudgingly attempted to step around him, then separate him from Dedue, then negotiate with him, he did not move. He refused to allow another death. 

Dimitri had not been able to save Glenn, or his father, or the other ghosts that would haunt him for the rest of his days. But he could save Dedue. 

They rode home together, Dedue clutching Dimitri's waist tightly- he had never ridden a horse before. When they returned, Dimitri clutched Dedue's hand tightly and refused to let go even as the bodies swarmed them. 

It was in the following months that Dimitri learned he had power. They would not hurt Dedue if he forbade it; he held all the cards now. They would allow him anything, if it meant that he would be a good heir, if it meant that he would allow them to keep the Blaiddyd line on the throne. 

It was only by this grace that they allowed him to cut his hair and throw out the petticoats for trousers. They brought in magics that made him taller, sharper, more boyish; Faith, as it turned out, had many applications. He drank their brews and hair grew in soft blonde down on his legs and chin. And in exchange he molded himself in the ideal of manhood that they made for him. Their heir. Their prince.

He kept a little of Sacha, as a reminder. He kept Alexandra as Alexandre, so he would not forget- one misstep, one failure, one cowardly, imperfect moment, and they would tear him down.


End file.
